Off kilter
by damnedperpetually
Summary: Three years after the events of Reichenbach, John Watson is still at a loose end, missing the excitement and danger of his previous life. Luckily for him, another Doctor is out there and might be in need of some assistance.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Neither Sherlock or Doctor Who belongs to me. If they did, Wholock would be real.

A/N: My first attempt at a crossover, so I hope it's not too bad (and my first try at writing John). Post-Reichenbach, so if you don't like John being sad, this probably isn't for you. Saying that, this isn't an angst-fest or anything. It's way more light hearted than that. Also, if you hadn't already guessed, SPOILERS for Sherlock and Doctor Who up until their respective most recent episodes (The Reichenbach Fall and The Doctor, the Widow and the Wardrobe).

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><p>John woke up on the wrong day, on the wrong side of the bed. The cold wasteland, with its white expanse dipping and surging before his blurry eyes. Rays of light glared at him through the gap in the curtains. That meant he was up late. His brain processed this fact, then banished it away to be ignored for now. One more thing could be wrong. His fingers slowly traced the line of the shadow running along the sheet as he avoided facing the truth that would swallow him up if he let it. Slowly, he moved his head enough that he could see the clock face, unfamiliar as it was from this angle. Nine-thirteen. The second hand and his soft breathing played out a quiet symphony whilst he lay there in the stillness of the morning, enveloped by the safety of a simple duvet. Once it was cast off, so would the illusion be. It couldn't last forever.<p>

He closed his eyes. Immediately, a barrage of images hit him, as if they had been lurking in the darkness for him to succumb to the temptation to give up, give in. Of course they had been. They always were. Falling, falling, everyone was falling. Three years had passed, three bloody years, and still he couldn't sleep like a normal person. The nightmares that threatened to invade his waking moments kept him tossing and turning, bolting upright and screaming in the middle of the night. Mrs Hudson was resigned to them now, not even commenting the next day but merely looking even more sympathetic than usual.

Reality? Yes. He blinked and peered around the room, still refusing to get up. Interesting viewpoint, this. He knew that he must have had a pretty nasty dream to have moved this far from his usual straight as a pole position on the right side of the bed. No need to take up more space than necessary. Instead, he was sprawled diagonally across his bed, head not quite touching the left pillow. Flashes of running and shouting ran through his mind, the remnants of a lost nightmare.

People thought he should have moved out; he knew that. It was clear from their faces, their awkward postures when they came to visit, the few that did. Living in an atmosphere of pain. John couldn't leave. One thousand and ninety three days later and he still woke up in their flat in Baker Street. He still expected to hear the sounds of agitated pacing as Sherlock pondered over a case or wished desperately for one. The detective's possessions had been tidied, but they were still there, waiting for the day that he could give them up. He doubted that day would come. Mycroft didn't want them. He'd been the only person who hadn't condemned John's decision to stay put. Probably just because it meant he could keep the same surveillance measures in place.

Nobody would know what day it was; the surgery wouldn't put two and two together and realise where he was. His appearances at work were sporadic, but somehow, miraculously, he still had a place there when he did turn up. They appreciated having somebody else to take the load, maybe. Noticed that he was a shell, a wandering lost soul looking for solace, and accepted his absences. He didn't have to go out today. There was food and milk in the fridge, if he remembered to eat. Finally, he understood how Sherlock felt, too engrossed in a case to worry about pesky little human needs, although it wasn't a case taking up his attention.

Finally, he lifted his head, embraced reality, and got out of bed. He wasn't a teenage girl, so he couldn't spend a day in bed with tissues and a tub of ice cream, no matter how appealing that might be. Automatically he walked to Sherlock's room and, without thinking about what he was doing, went to the wardrobe where the line of dusty clothes sat and pulled out the old, familiar dressing gown. That would do. Carefully, almost reverently, he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Today he needed a reminder of his friend.

John shuffled into the sitting room. The silk dressing gown felt incongruous: he shouldn't be wearing it, especially not with his worn pyjama bottoms and faded t-shirt. Channelling Sherlock, he sprawled on the sofa and stared at the wall. He could stay like this all day maybe. Deduce everything that could be deduced about that bit of wallpaper. The action was long gone from his life, but the skills were still there, wishing desperately to be put to use.

The doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson could get it, he decided as he pondered over whether the light scarlet stain that was barely visible on the wall was human or animal blood. Either was fairly likely. A second ring. She must have gone out. It was unlikely to be her at the door though, as Mrs Hudson wouldn't forget her key. Probably a tradesman or something. Anyone he knew would have rang or texted first. Or assumed he had actually gone to work. By the third time the bell sounded, his interest was piqued. Three rings. Who would try that hard? Whoever it was had held their finger down on the button for a couple of seconds each time. Determination, maybe, or someone who wasn't quite sure of bell etiquette.

He descended the stairs, taking no effort to rush, as anybody who had bothered to ring three times surely wouldn't be going anywhere quickly. Sunlight flooded into the dark hallway. A strangely dressed man stood on the top step, grinning wildly. John took in the tweed jacket, patterned shirt and bow tie. It seemed this man probably wasn't sure of fashion etiquette either.

"John Watson? _Doctor_ John Watson?" asked the man excitedly. John was starting to realise that there was something off about him, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Yes?" he replied guardedly. Today wasn't the day for nutty, potentially dangerous strangers.

"I'm the Doctor. I need your help."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Neither Doctor Who or Sherlock belongs to me. I really wouldn't have the time for them.

A/N: Any canon inconsistencies I blame upon this being AU in order for me to twist it to suit my purposes. Also, sorry if any of the writing of the characters is off, I'm not good at Amy or Rory and haven't had much practice at writing them.

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><p>"My...<em>help<em>?" John asked disbelievingly. It had been a while since someone had said that.

"Yes, yes," said the Doctor impatiently, bouncing slightly on the step. "Can we come in?"

It wasn't until then that John noticed the two figures standing behind him. This man had been taking up all of his attention with his strange attire and excitable manner. He was giving off the vibe of a child who had eaten too many sweets and gone a bit hyperactive. It was remarkably similar to Sherlock's manner when his brain was working much faster than everybody else's and he just wanted them to catch up. John couldn't work out why he'd made this link.

His eyes moved to a red haired woman, who was standing with her arms folded and an unimpressed expression on her face, and a man who was looking at this stance apprehensively. Married, he thought. He clearly knows exactly what this face means. The woman coughed loudly.

"Doctor."

"Oh right, yes," he stammered in response. "John, this is Amy and Rory. The Ponds. Well, that's her surname, but it works out better that way, we've decided. Or I've decided. Rory did sort of agree though, which is handy because…"

"Doctor," Amy said again. "We need his help, remember. That doesn't include boring him to death."

"Yes, come in," John finally answered, stopping this conversation before the woman exploded or the Doctor attracted any more curious stares. Anyone who knew him might think he'd finally cracked and found some fellow loonies to hang out with. The couple looked quite normal, but they seemed to be friends with this Doctor guy, if their easy familiarity was anything to go by. Sherlock would have done this much better than him. He would have probably worked out what was off about the Doctor by now. That, or befriended him.

The company trooped up the stairs, John leading and trying to work out why on earth they needed him. Three years of living life at a lower pitch, failing to find a replacement for the danger and the excitement, and now some strangers turn up who know his name and want his help. Think logically, he told himself, but before he had a chance to consider the details properly, the Doctor had bounded into the room, leapt into a armchair and started looking impatiently at the others.

"Come on you lot, the planet won't save itself, you know."

"Did he just say…?" John started.

"Yeah, saving the planet and stuff," the other man, Rory, finally spoke. "You get used to it. He's good at finding danger."

"So is Sherlock," John muttered, before realising what he'd said. "Was…" he quietly trailed out. Amy smiled sympathetically and forced him to sit down on the sofa, taking a seat next to him.

"We know," she said simply, placing her hand over his.

"Anyway," said John, pushing those thoughts further back into his mind. "Why are you here?"

"As I said, we need your help. Luckily, Doctor Watson, you aren't all that difficult to find. The TARDIS did get confused with a parallel universe for a moment, but she's a clever gal, she sorted it out." John looked at Amy, trying to ignore the phrase 'parallel universe'. "No, not _her_, that's Amelia Pond. She doesn't travel through time and space. My blue box does though." He looked almost proud at this.

A great deal of questions passed through John's mind, fighting to be asked first. Possibly the most obvious one, _are you a hallucination?_, he didn't dare ask. He doubted that his hallucinations would reveal themselves that easily, anyway.

"Who are you?"Amy chuckled, probably at the Doctor's exasperated look.

"I told you, I'm the Doctor. Just the Doctor. Nothing comes after it. Not like you, Doctor Watson." John wanted to tell him to use his first name, but he doubted that the Doctor would listen. He seemed to be having great fun, even with this apparent need to save the planet looming over their heads.

"Why does the planet need saving exactly? It seems to be doing just fine to me," John pointed out.

"Aliens," the Doctor stated simply, before getting up and going over to the skull on the mantlepiece. "Bit morbid," he remarked, apparently to himself.

Rory, who was still standing near the door awkwardly, opened his mouth. "Some aliens, or maybe just one, have gone undercover in London and we need to hunt them down and work out what they're doing here."

"If they're undercover, how do you know they're here at all?"

"He got an anonymous tip off," said Amy. "Don't ask me how. Once a little kid sent us a message to come and help to get rid of the monsters in his wardrobe. You get used to weird stuff."

"Why do you have a skull on your mantlepiece?" the Doctor asked.

"Sherlock used to talk to it. Before...before I became his flatmate."

"I never considered chatting to a skull in between companions," mused the Doctor. "It probably wouldn't be very good at being impressed at my genius, though." At these words, John rolled his eyes. He imagined that Sherlock had encountered the same issue.

"Probably would be more impressed than we are," Amy muttered. John might have laughed at that, but he still felt the cold chill of the day's significance clouding his mind. This man, he was...different. After the word 'alien' had been mentioned, John had begun to wonder if this Doctor guy wasn't human, despite looking like one. An alien who wasn't quite sure how to pass for human, maybe. An eccentric outfit and an odd demeanour. Then again, people could say the latter about Sherlock. He imagined taking this guy to visit Donovan and Anderson; they'd ask John where he found them, probably. The freaks. No, they wouldn't: they'd know how Lestrade would react to that. Occasionally he saw them, when Lestrade forced him into socialising with a wider group of people. It was never very successful.

"Why do you need my help? You sound like you're fairly used to this happening. Why do you need me this time?"

"Look, he's sharp," the Doctor remarked to Amy and Rory, before turning back to face John. "You have some skills that might come in handy. Deduction and such like. I'm pretty good myself, but then again I've had eleven hundred years to practice. You know London. And have police contacts. Authority tends not to be particularly keen on me. I can't think why…"

This time his two companions shared a look, a mixture of exasperation and affection. Definitely had known him a while then, John thought. Then he realised he was Sherlocking them. It was a habit he still hadn't been able to kick, even after three years. Sometimes it seemed that it might even be easier to apply his methods without the man himself breathing down your neck. Whenever he thought this, he immediately cast it from his mind, not wanting it to even vaguely seem like the consulting detective's death had any good consequences. Some days, the bad ones, it felt as if his life was just a countdown until someone told him that he was too broken to function. "You care too much", Mycroft had told him on the day when he had reluctantly gone to see the man, to tell him that he was returning to the flat on Baker Street. Mycroft had seemed uninterested, letting him know that Mrs Hudson had left most of Sherlock's things packed up in boxes, that yes John could keep them there and that he needn't worry about the rent, but just before he got up to leave, the mysterious, powerful man had stared straight into his eyes and spoken those four words that had haunted him ever since. Of course he cared too much. That was the problem. He just hadn't realised how much at the time.

"Are you okay?" Amy asked him.

"Wha- oh yeah, I was just...wondering. Who you are, how you all know each other, what on earth is going on. Those sort of things."

"People always need to know the details before they'll have an adventure," the Doctor complained. "Ponds, fill him in. I'm going to look around."

This time, John did laugh. The other two stared at him. "Sorry," he said. "But he - the Doctor - he's just so...he has similarities with Sherlock. It's just funny to see someone else like that." Neither of them looked like they knew what to say, so he continued, trying to keep up the light hearted tone. "How do you put up with him?"

"Practice," they said simultaneously. "And the ability to go along with things that seem impossible," Rory added.

"What do you want to know?" questioned Amy. "Only, we do have a time limit, and he's going to get bored of searching your flat for interesting humany things soon."

"Why do you talk about him as if he's a child?" slipped from John's mouth before he could ask any of his real questions.

"Because sometimes he is one," she answered simply. "And sometimes, you can tell he's over a thousand years old." At John's look, she continued. "He's a Time Lord. An alien. Lives for ages, regenerates into a new body instead of instantly dying. And travels through time and space in his TARDIS. He has adventures, saves people, that sort of thing."

"And you two?" he prompted.

"Human, hang around with him," Rory summarised, smiling.

"It's a bit complicated," Amy elaborated. "He turned up when I was a little girl, came back for me when I was grown up, and then it gets weird. Alternative universes, aborted timelines, at one point Rory didn't exist, at another he was a Roman for two thousand years. We met our daughter when she was grown up, before we even knew who she was, and then she was stolen from me not long after she was born and brainwashed to kill the Doctor. It's not a simple life."

"Wow," said John. "I thought I had it bad. That sound mental."

"It's a bit hectic," Rory said. "It doesn't matter right now though. We really do need your help."

"How do you even know about me?"

"The wonders of time travel. Or, more accurately, we remembered reading about you and Sherlock when we were living on Earth, when the Doctor thought that we thought he was dead. And then we were trying to go to some planet where there is a year round pajama party or something, but the TARDIS brought us to London, right now, and at the same time the Doctor got a note telling him that there was some sort of alien lose in the city. Which is the sort of call he just can't ignore. And he asked if we knew of anyone who could help us. Amy thought of you. It didn't take much research to find everything out about you, so here we are."

John was amazed. Not about the aliens or the time travel, but just that they had read about him and thought he might be useful. People who travelled through the universe, visiting other planets as if it was nothing, and they believed John Watson could help them out. There were so many things filling his mind at that moment, he failed to properly pick up on every detail. Particularly the one about the Doctor thinking that they thought he was dead, which might have suggested to John that they had seen their friend apparently die and therefore might have told him why they seemed so sympathetic.

At that moment, the Doctor bounced into the room, like he'd been waiting for the opportune moment. He was wearing the old deerstalker, which John had put on top of the microwave as a joke that no one but he understood.

"Excellent hat," he smiled. "Now, let's be off." He glanced at John's attire. "Hmm...not the most practical, but I suppose the Arthur Dent look is fine. Hurry up." He beckoned them all out of the door. John barely had time to register that he was wearing Sherlock's dressing gown, pajamas and slippers before his arm was grabbed and he was pulled down the stairs.

"Where are we going?" he breathlessly asked.

"The Natural History Museum," the Doctor answered with a grin.


End file.
